by Dirk Patton
But the third, a young woman with long, red hair, described it as like being spun on a playground whirly-gig so fast that she fell on her face and couldn’t get up for nearly an hour. Since it seemed to not be consistent from person to person, no one could tell me what to expect.
I’d suggested that they send me back ten minutes, as a test, so I would know what to expect. They told me that was a good suggestion, and they’d tested it in the past. Unfortunately, it didn’t tell them anything. Any distance less than twelve hours didn’t cause disorientation or vertigo for any of the assets. Only when that mark was exceeded. And the farther back they went, the worse it was.
I tried to talk them into sending me back fifteen hours as I was very concerned about what condition I’d be in when I arrived. The briefer had considered my idea and taken it to Director Patterson who had rejected it immediately. It was explained to me that an asset couldn’t be unavailable for that much time. There was no way to predict when the next event would occur, nor how much time within the event window would be needed.
I asked if the disorientation happened when they returned to real time, not looking forward to getting hammered by vertigo on both ends of a trip. Surprisingly, I was told it only happened when going backwards. Then Dr. Anholts had launched into a recitation of the theories and calculations to explain this.
It all came down to the difference between going back and returning to real time. Going back, you were transported through a Black Hole. Subjected to unimaginable gravitational forces. But returning was different. The machine was turned off. There was no Black Hole. Just the Universe restoring balance.
“So, if I understand this correctly, the problem with going back that kills anyone without my specific genetic marker wouldn’t apply coming forward,” I’d said to Dr. Anholts one afternoon.
She’d thought about my question for a moment, appearing perplexed. Then she confessed that they’d never thought about it in those terms. They’d never needed to. She had gone off and put her head together with several other egg heads. A few days later, she reminded me of my question and praised my logical thinking for having come up with a concept they hadn’t considered.
When she had delivered the praise, she given me an odd look. I got it. I’m not exactly the type that you expect to have something going on between his ears. I’ve kind of always been the brawny type. But there hadn’t been much to do in prison other than lift weights, unless one wanted to socialize. I’ve never been a terribly social person, so I filled the time by becoming a voracious reader.
I read everything in the prison library. Literally. Before I was sent to death row I was even allowed to attend some community college level classes within the prison walls. They were basic math, science and English, but that was OK. I hadn’t exactly paid attention in high school. Girls and football had been much more interesting.
One of the teachers, a moonlighting college professor from Arizona State University, had taken notice of me. Brought me text books that weren’t in the library. History mostly, but there had been some physics and psychology thrown in for good measure. I’d devoured every page. And despite myself, and the circumstances, I’d learned a few things.
So, my question had created quite a stir amongst the physicists. They’d worked on it, taking it very seriously. Run tests by sending back tissue samples that contained my genetic material. They sent them back to themselves, with detailed instructions, and had piggybacked additional tissue without the genetic marker onto the test, sending it back to real time along with my sample.
They learned that only when organic matter moved through a Black Hole was there damage caused at the cellular level. Coming forward, pulled back to real time by the Universe, there was no harm caused. The other interesting thing that came of this was the possibility for an asset to return to real time and bring another person with them. I was sternly cautioned against ever attempting to do so, for any reason, and risk compromising the project’s security.
“Tell me about the other possible event point you mentioned,” I said. “The one in the parking lot right before the attack.”
“From six minutes and eleven seconds until two minutes and thirty-eight seconds, pre-attack, all eight are gathered in the parking lot of a large strip mall adjacent to the school.”
He changed the image on the screen. A shot of the eight men, gathered next to three vans parked nose to tail appeared. It looked like a shot from an elevated security camera. When he pressed a button, the image jumped backwards thirty seconds and began playing as a video.
Two vans were in the lot already, the drivers of each still behind the wheel. One of them had his arm hanging out the window, a smoldering cigarette in his hand. A curl of bluish smoke rose above the roof of the van to be whisked away by a breeze.
Within a few seconds, the third van pulled to a stop with its bumper touching the one in front of it. The men got out quickly and gathered around the new arrival, who appeared to be their leader. He took a minute to embrace each of them, kissing them on the cheeks.
When he was done, he slid the side door of his van open and each of the men stepped forward and picked up a rifle and a bulging bag that I now knew was full of spare magazines. They spent a few moments checking their weapons, listened attentively as the leader said something to them, then they broke into two groups and headed in directions I assumed were the front and back of the school.
“No audio?” I asked.
“No. We tried to enhance the images and have an Arabic speaking lip reader tell us what he’s saying, but the angle is too steep and he can’t get a good look.”
“Can you rewind and blow up the leader’s face?” I asked, wanting to see which of the men was in charge.
Carpenter did just that. He played with the video briefly, then stopped it at a spot where the leader was turning his head and happened to be directly facing the camera. Image frozen, a rectangle was drawn around the target’s head and the software zoomed in tightly. It was one of the two faces I’d memorized because they also had pistols.
“I need to know how to get to the school if something goes wrong at the apartment,” I said after staring at the image for a brief time.
Carpenter slid what I had learned was an iPad across the table. The damn things had been a science fiction pipe dream when I went to prison. Now, it seemed every person working at Project Athena had one.
Picking it up, I tapped the screen and looked at enlarged head shots of each of the targets. There was also a photo of Janice Bass. A floor plan of the target apartment, and a map of the apartment complex with units 3F and 2C clearly identified and three separate routes between them clearly highlighted.
I tapped an icon and a mapping application opened, detailing the route from the apartment to the school. The name and address of the school were in a small balloon that hovered over its location. Looking at the map, thinking about what I was about to do, an idea came to me.
“This may be a dumb question,” I said, looking around at each of the three men in the room with me. “But when I get back, why not just call the FBI and tell them about the threat? They could evacuate the school and have a whole building full of cops waiting for these assholes.”
“Remember our discussion about treading lightly in the past?” Johnson asked.
I nodded that I did, but I didn’t understand where he was going.
“If you were to do that, rather than take the terrorists out, you’d have a potentially greater impact on events. Sure, it would stop the attack, but think about what would happen.
“You kill the targets, and it’s an apartment full of dead terrorists. Nice and private, and we have plans in place to keep it that way. No media coverage. No politicians screaming that if we do what they say, they’ll keep us safe. The event will be undone, and the targets will be quietly disposed of with no one the wiser.
“But, if you were to alert the authorities and the attack was successfully stopped, someone involved will get a tip out to a repo
rter. The next thing you know there will be a media circus. Police and FBI commanders will scramble to get in front of a camera and take credit. Politicians from coast to coast will try and capitalize on a thwarted terrorist attack.
“Radio and TV talk show hosts from every end of the political spectrum will milk every drop of ratings they can. And careers will be made and broken in the aftermath. Good people who work their asses off to protect us will be blamed for not having foreseen the attack. They’ll be scapegoated, most likely for some politician’s gain.
“Your job, the entire Athena Project’s job, is to undo especially tragic events with as little impact on things that will shape the future as possible. Remember that no change is a small change.”
“OK, I understand and accept that,” I said. “But what if something goes wrong at the apartment and I don’t stop them. The attack is going to proceed, but I can stop it with a single phone call. Save those children. What do I do?”
“Nothing,” Patterson answered for Johnson. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Let those children be slaughtered?” I asked in shock.
“Mr. Whitman, those children are already dead,” he said bluntly. “It is only through this amazing technological breakthrough that we can even consider the possibility of preventing them from having been murdered in the first place. Time has played out, exactly as intended.
“In our supreme arrogance as a species, we are now playing God and changing past events that for all of human history could not have been changed. This has been discussed with you and explained to you. I understand it is hard to reconcile, allowing the massacre to take place, but you must remember that it has already occurred.
“Even though when you are in the past it will feel like it hasn’t happened, it has. You’re just a visitor when you go back. And a visitor must be very careful to not start a new direction for our timeline. It may feel that’s what you’re doing by stopping the attack, but in actuality you’re just maintaining the status quo.”
I nodded my head, not because I was convinced or fully buying in to what he was saying, but because there was no reason to continue discussing this. I’d do what I felt was right when I got back there. Then I’d deal with whatever the fallout was when I returned.
22
I was nervous as hell. After the briefing, and a few more questions, Johnson and I had returned to prep. Now, I was outfitted with body armor and had a rifle and shotgun slung over my shoulders with plenty of spare magazines and ammunition. Both the rifle and shottie had suppressors attached, and I’d also added one to my primary pistol.
With Johnson escorting me, I waddled out of prep under the weight of all the weapons. Six months ago I’d have thought this was extreme overkill. I didn’t need this many weapons. But after the intensive training I’d undergone, I understood the need to be as heavily armed as possible.
Weapons malfunction. Ammunition can fail to fire or jam. Environments can change in a heartbeat during a battle, and the pistol that was the perfect choice in a confined room is suddenly almost useless when the enemy is more than thirty yards away. Or taking cover behind a wall.
I had one job. Hit these fuckers so hard and so fast that I was able to contain the carnage within their apartment. That would make it possible for the special FBI team to slip in and clean things up, erasing the final traces of an event that never happened. Having an adequate supply of various weapons on hand would increase my odds of completing the job successfully.
Before we’d left prep, Agent Johnson handed me two items. A specially encrypted iPhone and a leather wallet.
“The phone will only call one number,” he said, holding it up in front of my face. “Mine.”
“But the you back then won’t know I’m there,” I said, not understanding.
“No, but if he, I, get a call from you, I’ll know why as soon as I hear your voice. You call when it’s done. I’ll dispatch the clean up team.”
I nodded and opened the wallet, stunned to find a thick stack of hundred dollar bills folded inside.
“Five thousand in cash,” Johnson said. “A driver’s license in your new name and a black American Express card which has no limit.”
“Maybe I don’t want to come back,” I grinned.
“It’s not fun money, Mr. Whitman. It is so you are prepared to deal with any circumstances that might arise. Cash can open many doors that would otherwise remain closed.”
I nodded and slipped the wallet into a pocket, the iPhone into another. Pulling on a thin pair of leather gloves that fit like a second skin, I was ready. Following Johnson out of prep, we’d gone in the direction of the operations center, but had made a turn at the last moment. This was another hall I hadn’t seen before, and I shouldn’t have been surprised when we came to a stop facing two heavily armed Marines.
While one of them maintained close watch on us, his weapon at the ready, the other placed a call on a wall mounted phone. I could hear his conversation as he spoke in clipped phrases. He was verifying that I was authorized to enter the transport chamber.
It didn’t take long for him to finish, then he stepped to a steel door. On either side was a glass panel about twelve inches square. He placed his hand on the one on the right and nodded at Johnson who stepped forward and rested his hand on the opposite panel. The two screens didn’t seem to be doing anything, but a moment later there was a loud buzzer and the door slid open.
Johnson waved at me to enter first, following on my heels. I looked through a set of windows into the operations center, seeing Patterson, Dr. Anholts and a handful of technicians watching me. Ahead was the dais I’d seen earlier, and as I approached, a section of the curved glass that surrounded it slid open with a faint whine of electric motors.
“What do I do? Get in?”
“Yes,” Johnson said. “Stand in the center of the dais. The other assets have said you feel nothing other than the disorientation upon arrival. They described it as being like blinking your eyes and you’re suddenly somewhere else.”
I nodded, breathing rapidly as my heart rate shot up. What the fuck was I about to do? Was I sure the whole attack thing wasn’t a ruse to get me to willingly be a guinea pig? Hell, the whole attack on the school that had gotten me fully onboard could have been a Hollywood production and I wouldn’t have been able to tell. Some voices and a crappy helmet cam that cut out after only a few minutes. And faking a CNN broadcast could probably be done by a few high school kids with too much time on their hands. Fuck it. In for a penny…
“You OK?” Johnson asked.
I nodded and took a few deep breaths before forcing myself to march forward and step onto the dais. A thrum of power was noticeable, vibrations coming through the floor and up through my shoes. Turning, I faced the windows and looked at the people watching me.
“See you in a few hours,” Johnson said.
I turned my head as he left the chamber, the door sliding shut with a solid boom. There was another whine as the glass enclosure slid into place, completely encasing me. I saw Dr. Anholts lean over a console and a moment later heard her voice in the chamber.
“Are you ready, Mr. Whitman?”
I nodded, wishing I had something brave or witty to say. But I didn’t. I was scared shitless. Sweating through my shirt under the heavy body armor. Needed to take a piss worse than I could ever remember. Opening my mouth to tell them to wait so I could go to the bathroom, the words didn’t have a chance to come out before there was a sudden blink and everything went dark.
23
Well, not completely dark. I was suddenly in a musty smelling room, no lights on and the blinds closed tightly. The chamber I’d just left had been brightly lit with banks of high intensity lamps mounted in the ceiling. I guess the instant change of environments would take a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom.
There was a slight sensation of falling, like stepping onto a thickly cushioned surface, and I realized I’d appeared or materialized, or whatever the correct term is,
about an inch above the floor. Then gravity had taken over. But looking down, I was able to make out a thick carpet, so perhaps I’d just shown up and my weight had compressed it and the padding beneath.
It was only another moment before my body reminded me how badly I needed to pee. Looking around frantically, I spotted a narrow hall that led past a cramped kitchen. Snatching a flashlight out of a pocket on the vest I was wearing over my body armor, I clicked it on as I dashed across the small room.
I’d guessed right. The hall led to a bedroom, passing a bathroom which I ran into and nearly wet myself as I tried to get my pants open. The gloves I was wearing to prevent leaving fingerprints hampered my efforts slightly, but thankfully I made it. That wonderful feeling of relief passed over me as urine began splashing into the toilet. Then it hit me. I wasn’t disoriented.
In fact, I felt energized. Certainly nothing like I’d seen described by the other assets who’d come before me. Finished relieving myself, I zipped and buttoned up and reached out to flush the toilet, pausing with my hand hovering over the handle. This was a vacant apartment. The neighbors almost certainly knew that. Would they hear the sound of the water rushing in the pipes? Call the office and alert the manager that someone was in an apartment that shouldn’t be? Not worth taking the chance.
Leaving the bathroom, I quickly toured the apartment. It came with cheap, well worn furniture, so at least I’d have somewhere to sit while I waited. Using my small light, I checked all the closets, under the bed and sofa and opened and gently closed every cabinet door in the kitchen. The place was empty, and other than the musty smell I’d noticed when I first arrived, it was actually pretty clean.
An old landline phone rested on top of a well used phone book on the kitchen counter, plugged into a phone jack that was designed for wall mounting. I quietly lifted the handset and held it to my ear, more than a little surprised when I heard a dial tone. Why would a vacant apartment have a working phone? Realizing that was a question I couldn’t answer, I replaced the handset and remembered I was supposed to start a series of timers.
